


Golden Flowers (or: A New Beginning)

by bloodlessdandy



Category: Wuthering Heights - All Media Types, Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë
Genre: Canon Continuation, Character Development, Family, Feelings, Letters, Old Age, Second Generation, Slice of Life, a ramble - perhaps a story - but mainly a ramble, we do not speak His name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodlessdandy/pseuds/bloodlessdandy
Summary: The sun shines on the Heights as it never has before. Catherine Linton is now Catherine Earnshaw, and her heart is free enough to open up to recollections of the past as a new acquaintance, masked with old features of affection, knocks at her door.The letter Catherine has for this young gentleman brims with those recollections, and with answers to questions old and new. How is Nelly Dean's new life in the south? How have Hareton and Catherine settled and adapted to their new life? And it lingers in the air, unspoken yet ever-present, the ultimate question: what happened to the Heights after Heathcliff died?
Relationships: Hareton Earnshaw/Catherine Linton
Kudos: 7





	Golden Flowers (or: A New Beginning)

_Forget the past: that's dead and gone_ _  
It serves no purpose, you must move on.  
And when the time comes, you'll shine bright  
Like the Golden Flower, an incredible sight._

It is easier for you to leave the Heights than for the Heights to leave you. For nine-and-forty days, Catherine had told herself so. In truth, the last nine-and-forty days had been rather uneventful. The Heights were awfully quiet since Hareton had left for some business in the South. Embalmed by such mortal silence, not even the arrival of a new, chatty housekeeper had managed to stir up the air. Catherine Earnshaw sat outside, a book in her hand, trying to absorb the scarce light the sunbeams of a late April allowed up on the hillside. Though she’d never admit it, the view from the Heights had always held some charm, a certain magic that was utterly absent in Thrushcross Grange, her native home.

Of late she had wondered, either during a lethargic walk in the moors or a trod to the fairy pools, what had befallen to the Grange right after she left. She was aware, of course, of the change of property, and had despised the lawyers and bureaucracy involved half as much as she had the man who used to the estate back in the days. Months after his death, that name grew stale in the mouths of the occupants of the Heights. No one dared speak of him, and no one truly cared for it. The ghosts, they said in Gimmerton, now haunted the moors. Let them, Catherine thought, they shall not haunt me and what the roof upon my head can shelter.

Dusting some leaves off her spring dress, Catherine got up on her feet, ready to shake off the lethargic weariness from her old bones all the same. A thrilling sound, coming from behind the marble fountain, roused her attention.

‘Mom?’ the little bird called, ‘miss Vaughan says there is a man here who has come to see you.’

The good soul had walked all the way to the garden just to deliver that message. Now she stood, the apple of Catherine’s eye, one foot from the pools and their sparkles ignited by the light. The garden looked and sounded empty with just the youngest running and playing around. Dorothy, that was the name of the little bird, was born 7 years after Emma and 14 after Ellen. Ellen, the eldest of the Earnshaw daughters, would soon be home. She had spent the last months in the South, filling her days with love and care for her namesake.

‘Mom is coming. Now, be a dear and tell miss Vaughan to prepare some refreshment for the gentleman.’

Catherine’s face lit up. Her patient waiting would finally meet a reward.

As she stepped into the parlour, a face that blended the familiar and the pleasantly unexpected met her gaze.

‘I believe you are Harry’, she removed her gloves, ‘Mrs Dean’s son.’

Though sturdy and muscular in appearance, the gentleman’s eyes betrayed a meekness and softness of character, very unlike the mother. Ellen Dean was a feisty, fierce-mouthed woman, and retained her character until the last season of her life.

‘I am glad to finally meet you’, his honeyed voice announced, ‘and to see you so well, Mrs Catherine, it truly sparks a fire in my heart, in good memory of what my mother always said of you.’

‘I pray you, take a seat. I told Miss Vaughan you are in no rush.’ Catherine said.

‘Thank you kindly. My business in Gimmerton awaits me, but not until noon.’

The tall, soft-spoken man sat by the hearth. Catherine’s eyes caught a glimpse of Nelly in his fair features: his brow, the curve of his lip, yet not the eyes.

‘I hope you journeyed well. It must have been tiring to reach the Heights from Cheltenham.’

‘The weather was optimal, albeit the road rocky and unpleasant.’ Harry replied.

Miss Vaughan entered the room, only to leave a tray with refreshments and a pot of hot tea on the table by the hearth. Soon little Dorothy would join, as had been granted by her mother, but there was a matter Catherine had to settle first.

‘However’, the gentleman continued, ‘the thought of coming here to collect mom’s memories, alive in your vivid words, gave me all the cheer I needed to endure my journey’.

Catherine smiled of sincere happiness. The ill-fated events Nelly and she had lived through between the cold stone of the Heights and the high ceilings of the Grange were something many would have the fortune to never see during their lifetime. In spite of that, endurance had bred and strength had bloomed in their bosoms. Harry and the three little souls bearing the Earnshaw surname were the living proof that good had been achieved in their lives. Catherine, whose golden curls were slowly decaying to a pale, tired sable hue, perfectly framed her face, full of smile and reward at that moment.

‘And I am glad. I shall not delay your joy in receiving those memories and my words.’

She reached to the mantlepiece, where an envelope had been preserved.

The letter had sat there, scrutinising, bathing in its surroundings during the hours of dimmed light. Unseen, it had been there all morning. 

_Dear Nelly Dean,_

_I hope this letter reaches you while you are in good health. I am taking advantage of this bright day, the last of many before winter begins, to sit by the fountain and write these words. Hareton, as you may already know from our devout Ellen, has sold Thrushcross Grange. With it, my memories of the place are gone, buried peacefully where they may find rest. The new owners, a scruffy man and his wife, are from your husband’s whereabouts. What a coincidence! On the very first day they came to dine at the Heights, they mentioned Augustus Bell, to our absolute delight. May he rest in peace. I was amazed, I must say, and surprised when I found out your child’s name was not Augustus. I thought, such a glorious name, Nelly would give coins from her purse to have it in her family tree! But oh, Nelly, Nelly dear, your homage has made me and Hareton smile. Hareton Bell has the sweetest of sounds._ _Harry for short, as it is custom in the South to keep names brief and concise, as with their epistles._

_That is something I have noticed with my Ellen…She doesn’t write long letters anymore. Is she already adopting the habits of the South? Or has she found something to occupy her mind that her poor old mother cannot understand? Oh, how I long to see her sweet lips and eyes again! I know she is taking good care of you, as you have never failed to take good care of me. Just as your Harry holds a mirror to my dear Hareton’s name, I could not but have paid a tribute to the sweet seeds you have planted in our lives, Ellen Dean._

_The Heights are not the same without you, yet I am happy you have left. You have deserved every second of peace after so many years of hard work._

_The Heights haven’t changed much since your last visit. Only, there are golden flowers now, blooming on the hills that used to be bare, sprouting in the creaks of the old wall in the moors, daring to live and thrive where no life ever was allowed before._

_Hareton had a fountain built in the main garden, with a system that waters all plants and all the parts of the harvest so they receive equal and constant nourishment. He has been asked by a notorious mayor to export this ingenious method down south, where the harvest is twice as long and the sun burns twice as much. He is ecstatic at the prospect of traveling south, although he detests it should befall around Emma’s birthday. I know, however, our little girl is good enough to behave and I believe her ready to accompany her father on the journey. I shall tell Hareton of this plan soon. How does the wind blow your way? I have heard you are now moving to Cheltenham. What a lovely district it is according to our new acquaintances residing in the Grange._

_You will understand, my bones and energy are not the same as they were twenty years ago. If only they were, I would mount the first carriage and visit you, my dearest friend. But I am positive I shall meet you again. I will pray Ellen to collect a parcel for you during the coming weeks. After this letter arrives, you shall receive some things I believe you have valued immensely while at the Grange. Among them the miniature of your mother, together with the pearls I was wearing for my wedding._ _You will find something else, too. Hareton and I have discussed many times whether you will wish to see some of these again or not. We have come to the conclusion that you will, as you were her best and only friend in the world. We are sending you my mother’s books, her poems, and her letters to you. I believe she never sent those. Nor she had any way and reason to, sharing, as it were, the same space as you. I am aware they may open old wounds, but I am also sure you will find in them the heart that tied you two together._

_With the warmest of embraces,_

_Catherine Linton Earnshaw._

The words treasured inside that letter may have left the Heights on the day Harry Bell departed, but the soul woven to each and every one of them would hardly ever do so.

**Author's Note:**

> This is but a small tribute to what is one of my favourite novels ever. I thought I'd take some of the characters further, without speculating too much on their respective futures, but trying to frame how they would keep safe the memory of each other in their minds.  
> I hope you liked it and, if you want to make me really happy, I would love if you left a comment.
> 
> The poem above is Kelvin Rush's 'The Golden Flower'.


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